


Piitiiful 2leeple22 Fool2

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bulges and Nooks, Caretaking, Fluff, M/M, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Someday, maybe you'll stop doing this dance.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You doubt it. But maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piitiiful 2leeple22 Fool2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laylah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Insomniacs and Matesprits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/183158) by [Laylah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah). 



  


Your name is Sollux Captor, and your head is so full of code right now that you’ve lost track of time. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last.

Every few minutes or so you’ll pick a random individual on your Trollian (based on an _extremely complex_ algorithm with its roots somewhere in the relative geometric positionings of—well, the explanation would take a long time because, as mentioned previously, it’s _extremely fuckiing complex_ ) and send them one or more of the viruses you’ve been revising over the past however-many perigees and carefully monitor for as long as you feel is necessary (re: until you get bored) the reaction of their systems before recalling the program and rebuilding it. There’s always room for improvement, ways to make them better, _more effiiciient_. You’ll create the perfect program, the ultimate system destroyer. You’ve almost done it, you’re sure of it.

Except every trial run brings new miscalculations to light, new mistakes, and sometimes you get so fucking _2iick_ of it that you wonder if you should just set your beehouse mainframes on fire and burn yourself with it. Rid the world of your incompetence.

There’s a little flashing light at the bottom of your screen (when isn’t there?) and you don’t care. He’s yelling at you—typical—and you barely pause to give him the time of night before returning to not caring. There’s a program to perfect, and that’s all that matters.

You continue not to care, even when he stalks through into your hive ( _typiical KK behaviior, what a fuckiing 2hiit2taiin_ ) and past your desk. You don’t acknowledge him: you’re in the zone, slouched in your chair, spikes of red and blue flashing over the keys faster than your fingers ever could, lines of code gleaming in your lenses. He’s making noise somewhere in the recesses of your hive, and you barely register his presence.

You’ve fucking _got iit_.

When the final line of code is entered, you actually shift, your finger mashing down the last key with something akin to triumph. It’s perfect. You know it is. _Perfect_.

Karkat chooses that moment to shove the atrocity he wrangled out of the nutrition dispenser under your nose. In response, you hiss at him, your psionics crackling. “What the FUCK, KK.”

“Shut up,” he answers, wiggling between you and your desk. _Bold liittle bulge2ucker, ii2n’t he?_ “Eat.”

You know there’s no use arguing with him. This isn’t the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last.

With a sigh, you unfold your lanky frame from the cramped chair you’ve been hunched in, taking a bite of the mush that looks like it was once something that dreamed of being grubloaf. Your digestive sack growls loudly in response, and as you stretch, several joints crack and pop, giving an indication of just how long you’ve been tucked in front of your husktop. _How long HA2 iit been?_

Your matesprit is glowering at you from behind the plate, and you offer him the most apologetic look you can muster. If you know your Vantas (and you do; you might not understand yourself some days, but you know how he works), that look means he waited for you to come to your senses for at least three full nights before storming over here. _Oop2_.

Well, at least the grubloaf doesn’t taste too bad.

You’re aware, dimly, that he’s lecturing you. He’s rather colorful tonight— _REMNANTS OF A PAILING PILE LOOK BETTER THAN YOU DO RIGHT NOW, CAPTOR, WHEN THE FUCK WAS THE LAST TIME YOU ATE, I HAVE BETTER FUCKING THINGS TO DO THAN TAKE CARE OF YOUR SCRAWNY GRUBFUCKING ASS, I’M NOT YOUR DAMN LUSUS AND IF I WAS I’D CULL MYSELF WITH A QUICKNESS_ —but there’s no actual anger in his voice, and besides, you’re far too interested with the nutritional meal he’s provided you with to actually listen to him. Instead, you let the sound of his voice wash over you without registering all of the words, humming contentedly to yourself between bites.

It’s gone way too quick, and when you set the plate down, exhaustion hits you like a ton of sectional blocks. “I do hate to interrupt your beautiful lecture,” you begin, and the snarly little troll in front of you scowls in response.

“You need to fucking crash, you tremendous bulgehuffing jackass.”

He’s _2o fuckiing awful_ at pretending to be angry. “You don’t even look mad.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You don’t resist when he trollhandles you out of your chair and practically carries you to your recuperacoon. Your clothes come off easily (god, you _reek, when wa2 the la2t tiime_ you _bathed, grubfuck_ ) and you sink into the sopor with a sigh, sleep taking you in less than a minute.

He’ll join you, you’re sure of it. This isn’t the first time this happened, and it won’t be the last.

* * *

You don't know how much time has passed, but there’s still dying daylight limning your windows and the comforting weight of a Karkat in your arms. It’s hard to want to wake up, so you don’t; instead, you shift so that he’s closer to you, your lips grazing the rim of one ear. There’s a low noise in his throat, and that’s enough encouragement for you.

Your hand slips lower, over the pudge of his stomach, and when your fingers run over his carapace, you hear his breath catch. You hum your approval, rocking up against him. The sigh that escapes him is somehow needy. Wanting. “You pitiful fucking fool,” you whisper, and he chuckles, shifting against you, moving until his lips covers yours.

There’s no rush this evening, when it’s too early to be considered late and all that matters is the bittersweet taste of him under your twin-tined tongue. You claim your matesprit with slow, languid thrusts, one bulge buried in his nook and the other twining with the thick length of his own, squeezing it with almost lazy rhythm. Your claws trail idly over his back and you savor the taste of his moans against your mouth. He’s yours, your fucked-up angry little crab, and fuck if you aren’t absolutely _flu2hed_ for him.

When it’s over, you’re both still. You’re not ready to get up, and all you want is to stay here, with him, in this briefly perfect moment where the rest of the multiverse isn’t invading your every thought. He moves, and you clutch at him. “KK—”

“I’m not going anywhere, fuckstick,” he answers, his voice sopor-thick and sleepy. “You’re insufferable, you know.”

“I know,” you respond, settling back. You release him, slowly, and he tucks himself against you. “Idiot.”

“Yeah.” 

This time, he falls asleep before you, and you drift away with the quiet sound of Karkat’s snore in your ears.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, and you sure as fuck hope it won’t be the last.

  


**Author's Note:**

> AUGH GOD this is my first remix ever! It gave me a chance to work on my favorite boys - SolKat always has been and always will be my OTP - and it was a lot of fun. =3


End file.
